


parenthetical

by en passant (corinthian)



Series: Faith & Guns [3]
Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-27 19:53:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2704553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corinthian/pseuds/en%20passant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A small short aside to Wicked Girls/Skinny Fists.</p>
            </blockquote>





	parenthetical

first;

He refuses to give her absolution, so she asks for something else. He tells her, ask me again in a week. And she knows, _knows_ because she could see the skittering looks between him and his partner, that he’s asking for permission. She’s furious, empty, hollowed out by that. Who would have thought that her little mercenary boy who she loved and hated would have become so full?

A week later she asks again. He says, just once.

She says, all she needs is once. They have never been people who had more than moments to spare, anyway. Though, maybe he does now. She gives him her address — tells him to pack a spare set of clothes and asks again, are you sure.

“I’ll get something out of this, too.” Was all he says in response.

second;

She doesn’t tell him that Dorothy will be there too, but he’s not surprised when Dorothy answers the door. Instead he levels them both with a slow curious look. Then, “You’re still together.” It’s almost approving, and Middie bites her lip.

“I can’t believe you agreed,” Dorothy smirks, “Or is it, that you can’t refuse her?”

He takes his shoes off and leaves them in the foyer, along with his socks. Middie watches him, she half expects him to explain to Dorothy — because she knows why. He feels just as guilty as she does, for that time. And part of him wanted to find her, during or after the war. They irrevocably marked each other in that moment, even more so because he hadn’t killed her.

third;

Dorothy doesn’t usually _do_ dirty talk. Not the empty kind of stock dirty talk that Middie has heard from so many men over the years. But something about the way that he leans over Middie, caresses her and kisses her — hungry but quietly, has set Dorothy off.

Her shoe plants itself on the small of his back, the thin long heels Dorothy has become fond of wearing, digging in. “Up, slut.” She says.

Middie watches his face change, flip from hateful-affectionate-blank to comfortable. He refuses, bends and kisses Middie again. Dorothy steps harder, grabs his hair, yanks him away from Middie. She spreads his jaw, pushes his fingers into his mouth.

“Let me fuck that wet cunt of a throat,” she hisses. Her roughness lets Middie wrap her arms around him and hold him, like she had wanted to, all those years ago.

fourth;

He turns his gentleness on Dorothy, when Middie takes him from behind. Her breasts press into his back, but she makes sure to angle in hard, fast, brutal, because he’s taking his time with Dorothy. He teases her, is slow with her, shows her tenderness that Middie knows has to be feigned — or, she hopes.

Dorothy passes her a razor, small and sharp.

Middie’s not sure she can use it, not on his back which maps his life more fully than her memories ever would. She recognizes the shape of almost all of his injuries, down to the burned flesh, so like her own scar, on her face.

fifth;

He’s talented with his mouth. The shake between Middie’s thighs, just thinking of it, is a memory she’ll have for a while. But he’s turned his attention to Dorothy’s foot, her toes pushed well past his teeth.

Middie can only see out of the corner of her eye, because she’s kissing Dorothy. She’s fingering Dorothy and Dorothy is making her stomach flutter with both her thumbs and index fingers.

Dorothy only breaks the kiss to command — don’t touch yourself — and Middie mouths his reply back, because she knows what he’s going to say: Wouldn’t dream of it.

sixth;

It’s only after she’s exhausted, with Dorothy’s arms wrapped around her and the softness of their bed beneath them that she starts to talk. He’s on the floor, where they left him, glassy eyed and breathing calmly. She ended up using the razor after all, carved an _M_ under his left shoulder-blade.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “Except I don’t feel bad at all. I’m sorry for not feeling bad. I wasn’t lying at all, then. I hate you and I love you. I only wish that you loved me back.”

His face turns up, his eyes track over to her face and he looks at her. He won’t ever forgive her, really.

“I’ve fantasized about you,” her confession continues, “About being able to have power over you again.”

His silent laugh is so quick she almost misses it.


End file.
